Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson (Portland Playhouse)

America, the oversexed adolescent.

In Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson, the seventh
president pours himself into skinny jeans, slicks his hair back
Fonzie-style and packs a microphone in his low-slung holster. He does
beer bongs before signing legislation and orders pizza to the Oval
Office. And sometimes, he just sips at a juice box and whines about how
much his life sucks.

Historical
revisionism hits head-spinning heights in Alex Timbers and Michael
Friedman’s swashbuckling musical, presented at Portland Playhouse. Bloody Bloody is
a vaudeville romp through Jackson’s life: tragic childhood, battles
against the British and Spanish, populist campaign for the presidency
and brutal relocation of Native Americans. Set to an emo-rock soundtrack
on a Wild West-inspired stage, it imagines Jackson and his fans as
hormonally charged and fickle teenagers, driven by blustery impetuosity,
clumsy idealism and sophomoric humor.

This production,
directed by Brian Weaver, gets off to a high-octane start. Jackson
(Logan Benedict) swaggers onstage like an emo Elvis, dressed in a
nipple-exposing white henley and black eyeliner. “I’m wearing some
tight, tight jeans and tonight we’re delving into some serious, serious
shit,” he croons to the audience, lip curled. The ensemble, in sexed-up
frontier garb, jab fists into the air as they belt the opening song,
“Populism, yea, yea!” It’s surprising, silly and very funny.

But despite the best efforts of an exuberant cast, Bloody Bloody
can’t quite maintain its early energy. The scattershot structure is the
primary problem—it sometimes jolts from self-conscious slapstick to
jarring didacticism. That’s unfortunate, because alongside some
lowest-common-denominator jokes, there are some hilarious lines—“that’s
just laissez unfair,” quips a mutton-chopped Martin Van Buren.

The show is a
mishmash of historical and modern references, but the best moments forgo
period appropriateness—standout spots include a battle scene of
impeccably choreographed dueling duos, a spooky version of “Ten Little
Indians” and Melissa Murray’s deadpan turn as Jackson’s wife, Rachel. Bloody Bloody has plenty of oomph—it just needs a bit more focus.